


King Goog

by paintedbunny



Category: Dream Team - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), mcyt
Genre: DNF, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Lovers, Gen, King George AU, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, based off of zelda botw, dreams a cocky bastard, knight dream, pride and prejudice vibes??, so is George
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28392462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedbunny/pseuds/paintedbunny
Summary: George is being raised to be a model king, the perfect child. Accepting the fact that he doesn't want to be king is difficult. On top of that, he has to deal with the most pretentious personal knight in existence: Clay.
Relationships: Dream/George - Relationship, clay/george
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	1. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George doesn't want to be king. So, in an act of defiance, he goes to the one place that once held his hopes and dreams, everything he ever wanted.

“George! You get back here right this instant!”

Wind whipping past. His mother screaming. A thrill. George forgot how it felt to disobey the rules. Good boy, the perfect kid for a future ruler. He wanted to escape it, even for a few minutes, even if that meant getting in trouble later. Right now, he was free.

George couldn’t really feel it when he bumped into the servants and workers about the castle, he just ran. Where to? He didn’t care. He just wanted to get away. Adrenaline pumping and a huge grin on his face, he found himself outside the knights’ quarters. It was nice here, unlike the servants’ quarters. The knights would have their own rooms, sometimes sharing it with their families.

He made his way past the rooms, to the area he would visit all the time when he was younger. When he thought he could become a knight. When he was stupid, and thought his life was his own.

It was a small room, very private, far away from the rest of the other training facilities, and usually only used by higher ranks. George would come here to watch the knights spar in his free time, which was much more prominent when he was younger.

He stopped coming when he turned ten; when his schooling became serious. George couldn’t explain how his brain made him come here of all places. This room, that once held all his hopes and dreams. It made him sad. No, not sad. Hopeless. 

“I don’t wanna be king.” He muttered to himself, trailing his hand across the cold, stone walls. It felt nice, saying that. Accepting it. He had pushed the thought to the back of his mind for years now, not wanting to admit that he didn’t want to become what he was being raised for. His entire purpose.

George neared the room, when he heard loud grunting. Were there people sparring? George picked up his pace. Maybe they’d let him watch?

Almost running now, he turned the corner, and froze. Two young boys, around his age, in their early teens, were sparring. The pain in his chest welled up, all at once. Jealousy. Jealousy of being able to do what they wanted, jealousy of having friends.

Their movements were quick and precise: swift jabs and punches, always blocked, never hitting each other. The taller one, the blonde, got cocky and moved his hands down a bit. The shorter one took advantage of this and landed a hard blow with his left hand. The blonde winced, but quickly recovered himself, flashing a smile and framing his face by making a v with his index and thumb.

George felt his stomach bubble, like acidic butterflies bouncing around, threatening to fly out through his throat. His face was hot, and droplets of sweat were forming on his palms. He scratched the back of his neck, questioning if he should leave and face the wrath of his angry mother. 

The taller one blocked a blow, shuffling to the side so that George was in full view. He dropped his hands and stared. The shorter one froze and turned, also staring.

“Uh, s-sorry. I got los- um. I’ll just go.” George sputtered out.

“Wait, aren’t you the prince?”

George turned back to face them. “Yes.”

“What are you doing down here?” The taller one stepped forward, amusement dancing across his features. “Is the perfect prince breaking the rules?”

George wasn’t used to being addressed in this way. He was usually treated with caution and respect, even by kids his own age. The butterflies were having a field day. George tried to fight the redness on his face, looking up at the boy with as much confidence as he could muster. 

“I’m not perfect. And I break the rules all the time.”

“Oh I’m sure you do.” The kid behind him snickered, but quickly silenced himself when George shot him a look. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for his next sentence. 

“You have a lot of nerve speaking to a prince like that.”

“What are you gonna do? Tell on me to daddy?”

George was sure his whole face was red at this point, and he was sure the boy could see it. His head was spinning and his vision was blurring. He couldn’t even comprehend the loud footsteps behind him, or the feeling of being dragged away by his arm. All he could see was the boy’s stupid smirk. The smug look in his eyes. The intruding thought of punching him so hard he broke his nose. He hated that boy.


	2. The New Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George gets appointed his personal knight.

Sweltering heat. George rested his head on his hand, his eyelids heavy, struggling to keep his eyes open. The breeze wafted in through the open window, ruffling the curtains. The sun was beating down on him, reddening his face, burning him up. His head drooped down, and he had to catch himself before leaving a noticeable bruise on his forehead. 

“George? George?” His mother’s snapping caught his attention.

“Hm?” he asked lazily, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

“Are you paying attention?”

“Yup.” 

He stretched back in his chair, extending his hands above his head. He focused his blurry eyes at the chalkboard in front of him. Lists of dinner foods and decorations and guests. 

“I still don’t understand why we have to make this such a big deal, mom.”

“We’ve had this conversation, George. Turning 20 is a very big deal. It also sets the stage for your coronation. Ooh, I’m ever so excited to plan that.” And with that, the Queen turned back to her board, muttering to herself, occasionally asking George his opinion on whether he preferred royal or cerulean blue, or if poppies or tulips were his favorite flower. 

At dinner that night, George could feel the tiredness enclosing him from having to overheat in that oven of a room with his mother all day. He could barely eat, and dismissed himself after about ten minutes.

“Wait a second, son.” George’s dad said, holding up a hand to signify he wanted George to take his seat again. “I just wanted to remind you about the ceremony tomorrow.”

George’s mind blanked. Ceremony? Tomorrow?

His mother pitched in. “You’re getting appointed a personal knight. At 8am. In front of the whole kingdom.”

A distant memory from about a week prior of his mother mentioning the “strapping young fellow” that would become his personal knight flashed in his mind, realization settling on his face.

“Ah of course.” He said with a soft smile. “Am I excused now?”

His father nodded. As he walked out of the dining hall his mother called after him. “Please don’t be late son!”

The night air didn’t help the heat. George turned over far too many times, constantly flipping his pillow to the cold side. He kicked his blankets off in distress, not being able to fall asleep. He let his mind wander in a daze-like state. It travelled to tomorrow, when he’d meet his personal knight at the ceremony. George didn’t know many knights; only the general and several captains. He was forced to attend meetings with them and learn about military strategy with his father. None of it ever made much sense to him, although none of anything he was taught ever made much sense. Why he always had to sit with his shoulders pushed back or why the taxes were so high. George found himself confused most of the time.

“What a shame,” he had overheard a group of women at a party once, “the young prince used to be such a bright young man. Now I hear he’s going to lead that kingdom into bankruptcy.”

Soon after, sleep overtook the young man. His brain and body worn out. That hopeless feeling that had enclosed his existence since he was young now more present than ever.

“Prince! Prince please wake up!”

George sat up. “What time is it?”

“8am!”

“Are you kidding?!”

“No sir!”

George raced out of bed. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He combed his hair through with his fingers and threw on the outfit that had been laid out the night before. He sped through the castle and into the decorated courtyard, trying his best to not look out of breath. 

His mother rushed him over to stand in between her and the King. They were standing in front of the grand steps that led to the entrance doors, the entire staff before them, the townspeople just outside the open gates, being held back by the guards. 

George glanced to his right to look at his father. He was livid. His jaw was clenched and his head was facing perfectly forward. The veins were popping out of his hands, which were perfectly placed over a giant, jewel-encrusted sword. The sword that would be used to appoint George’s personal knight.

Then it came back to him: George was getting a personal knight! 

His mind wandered over all the young knights around his age he’d seen about the castle grounds. He skimmed over the group of them at the bottom of the steps, giddy with excitement at being able to hopefully befriend whoever it was. 

Trumpets blared and a young man stepped forward. He had a serious face, with a broad nose and sharp jawline that matched his demeanor. Visible freckles were strewn across the bridge of his nose, decorated by a healed scar. His dirty-blond hair was neatly combed back, and his kaleidoscope green eyes were filled with pride. Other than that, he showed no emotion. 

He kneeled before the King, who lifted the sword and touched the tip to both of his shoulders, reciting an age-old verse about chivalry and duty. George wasn’t paying attention to his father’s words, however. Instead, he was staring at the man who was now his personal knight. He looked unbelievably familiar, but George couldn’t figure out why.

The knight held up his arms, and the King placed the sword carefully into his hands. He then stood up and sheathed it. He shook the King’s hand and bowed his head. He moved on to George, and the second their eyes locked and hands met, it hit George like a wave. It all came back. Fleeing from his mom. The cold stone walls. The jealousy. The acidic butterflies. The pure rage.

That feeling of pure rage was resurfacing. George couldn’t understand why. That incident was so long ago, and all it was was childish bickering. Why was he so mad?

The knight moved on to shake the Queen’s hand, then turned to wave at the onlooking crowd. The cheering. The blaring trumpets. It pissed George off. He glared at the man, the sword at his waist. The jewels were too flashy, too bright. The sun bounced off one and landed in George’s eye, blinding him for a second. He stood fuming as they were ushered back into the castle.

Ten minutes. Ten minutes of seething rage, breathing heavily, trying to calm down.

He felt the heat radiating through the castle as he had to endure breakfast sat across from his new knight.

His mother smiled at the two of them. “George, this is Clay.” 

Clay looked up at George and nodded. George made no gesture in return. His mind went back to his cocky smirk as he was being dragged back to his life, away from his momentary escape. 

The Queen gave her son a fierce look and George forced a grin at the other boy before avoiding eye contact the rest of the meal. All he could see was his smile. It made him mad. It made his breathing shaky and the back of his neck sweat. The beads slowly dripping down his back, a mix of nerves and the heat muddling his mind.

And worst of all: the butterflies. He wanted to throw up, or jump in a cold bath, or cry under his blankets.

When they were dismissed, George went straight to his room, his social battery drained. He stayed there for the rest of the day, saying he felt ill. 

Tears came easily that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I'm really glad people are finding this, since it's my first time publishing work. If you have any questions please comment.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading:) im not super sure about how consistent ill be with updating so no promises. also, sorry the chapter is really short, its just an introduction


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